


CURRENCY

by APendingThought



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angry Din Djarin, Coda, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Din Djarin Whump, Electrocution, Heartbeats, Hurt Din Djarin, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Procedures, Panic Attacks, Protective Grogu | Baby Yoda, Soft Din Djarin, Trauma, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:47:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28827648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APendingThought/pseuds/APendingThought
Summary: One Mandalorian versus a tribe of nomadic car thieves leaves Din Djarin with a seriously damaged heart and no way to get off this planet with the Child. Seeking help from former Empire slave Kuill, he will have to repair himself first before he can repair his ship.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 69





	1. THE IMBALANCE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheHeartOfAMandalorian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHeartOfAMandalorian/gifts).



> Inspired by a muse from TheHeartofaMandalorian, what if Din suffered a severe arrhythmia from being shocked by the jawa blasters during his failed siege on the fortress? Basically a coda fic for THE CHILD episode which wrote itself.

“What is wrong with you?”

If there was one thing Din appreciated about the wizened Ugnaught, it was his candor. He did not possess levity of any kind. But that question at this hour sounded like the closest thing to it. Din’s mission—hell, his entire life—was dead in the nebulae--left only the bare bones of a ship and an aged moisture farmer to hear his woes. Bad decisions? He'd made a few. Everything was setting him off. The rank musk of the Blurrgs sweat, the hot dust rising into his helmet, and the endless nothingness of this scrap heap farm had him Hell bent on leaving it all behind him yesterday. 

“That s’posed to be some kind of joke?” He seethed.

“I will ask you again, Mandalorian. What is wrong with you?” The stoic Ugnaught was unmoved, his tenacity tightening the ache in Din’s chest.

“Told you already.” He grunted, pacing the distance between the foal pen and feed troughs. “Kriffing jawas stripped my ship. Its packed up in their sandcrawler.”

“I did not ask what was wrong with the world, Mandalorian. I asked what was wrong with _you._ ” Kuill tossed a handful of seed to the waiting Blurrgs in their holding corral. 

Din growled a warning. The effort it took to vocalize sent a wave of unexpected dizziness crashing down on him, noticeable enough to force him to find the nearest place to plant himself.

“I’m not in the mood for riddles, old man.” He sighed heavily as he lowered himself onto a dry scrap bale. Kuill finished feeding the last salivating Blurrg and wiped his hands on his work smock. 

“I posed no riddle for I do not know how one is made. I asked you a question because there are things about your encounter with the Jawas I must learn in haste if I am to help you.”

Din couldn’t decide whether or not the Ugnaught’s throaty voice and cool demeanor increased the dull throbbing behind his eyes or was the one thing preventing a fist through the barn wall. It was anger about the botched job making his vision blur, he told himself. Committing single warfare on a band of jawas only to return humiliated, empty-handed and bruised was more than he’d signed up for. He didn’t give a _tsook’s_ tail about the bounty anymore.

The bounty, by the way, sat in its floating pram watching proceedings with large intent eyes. The mysterious green-toned child kept itself a distance, likely not wishing to become a focal point of Din’s anger. 

“You keep rubbing at the cuirass of your armor.” Kuill noted.

Din paused, blinking down to find his hand lingering at the center of his chest where the twinge was most profound.

“You have not stopped pacing since your return and your gait is unsteady. I have observed you well before your encounter with the Jawas and your behavior now is not as it was then.”

“Yeah. Not having the best day.” Din agreed. He gasped short when he felt an odd short circuit in his chest; like a painful hiccup behind the ribs. This did not go unnoticed by Kuill or the Child, whose oversized ears perked up.

“Tell me again of your battle with the jawas.” Kuill, now fully paused in his chores, seated himself before him to listen. “Leave nothing out.”

Din chuffed. In truth, he’d prefer a one handed tussle with a Twi’lek than feel again the burn of his failure but the geezer wasn’t letting this go and he was the only entity on this entire sand dune not actively trying to end him.

“They were armed,” he grunted against the ache flaring up again. “I didn’t know that jawas even kept weapons. Once I’d breached the fortress, they shot me with their blasters and I…fell. When I woke up, they were gone.”

Kuill nodded and hummed for an extended passage of seconds. Too long for an impatient bounty hunter. Din stifled a curse, fighting the urge to send his fist through a blurrg.

“So you lost consciousness.” He said.

“Must have.” Din replied.

“You revived on your own, then? And made your way here?”

“Yes. Their ion blasters were pathetic. Didn’t even make a dent.”

“Not on the outside, no.” Kuill murmured. “Come closer so that I may feel your pulse.”

Din frowned. “My what?”

“You have returned whole, Mandalorian, but not sound. You have incurred damage unseen by the eye. I must use my fingers now to see it. Sit by me and give me your hand. I have spoken.”

Din knew when he had lost an argument. He was too tired to resist. He didn't want to admit it but the light-headed feeling wasn't going away.

With a sigh, he relented though it was the last thing his instinct told him to do. He was surprised to find his arm trembling as he extended it, exhaustion and pent-up rage making his entire body vibrate. Kuill positioned himself closer. Removing his worn work gloves, he took Din’s overly large hand in his small ones and with nimble fingers pushed back the fabric of his sleeve to expose the flesh of his wrist.

“I am permitted.” Kuill whispered as though it were an apology, placing two small fingers firmly against the inside of his wrist. His body went very rigid and still, as though trying to detect something.

The quiet and Kuill’s fixed concentration unsettled Din, causing the pressure in his chest to grow with a vengeance. Before he could mention it, a forceful kick from inside rebounded this time into his throat; a sensation that made him suck in a sharp breath.

"Ahk--!"

“Mmm.” Kuill hummed. “I am correct.”

“About what?” Din spat.

“Breathe quietly.” Kuill advised, fingers still planted on his wrist.

“I am!”

“You are not. Being the center of scrutiny may cause one to temporarily halt their breathing. I am not the first to remind you of this. As a warrior, you have been taught control. Use it.”

“Start making sense now, old man!” Din was dangerously close to destroying something. The urge for violence and action made his lungs seize and his chest constrict.

“Your heart struck you from inside, didn’t it?” Kuill released his wrist and Din made quick work of righting the fabric so that he was fully covered. 

“Nothing a stim shot can’t fix.” In truth, he was not even sure where he would acquire one on this desolate rock unless he had a stray syringe floating somewhere in the wreckage of the Crest.

“I am not convinced.”

“Are you about to complicate my life even more?”

“Not with intent.” The Urgnaught insisted. “There exists a serious imbalance within you, Mandalorian. If it is not corrected, it will kill you.”

This gave Din reason to pause.

“I don’t have time for this." A stranded bounty hunter was an easy target and that showdown in Arvala-7 wasn't going to stay a secret for long. On top of that, the jawas were about to have his navigation unit sold in their roving bazaar by next light. Time was the one thing he did not have in abundance. The only thing he had going for him were the vintage of the parts—good luck trying to sell a rusted, barely functioning fuselage to any merchant with a brain.

“You will make time." Kuill countered. “There are threats even deadlier than a loaded blaster.”

Din clenched his fist so hard, he felt the joint pop. He had no reason not to trust the old one and the dizzy spells were enough to keep him grounded. Thus far, the old Ugnaught had been the only non-hostile being on this inhospitable planet. Might as well hear him out.

"Alright. Explain.”

"When the Empire enslaved our people, they put us to work in the engine chambers of their war cruisers. Our small size and skilled fingers made us ideal laborers to repair damages to the core powering units. We were tasked with mending and assembling the vast wire networks connecting the main frames.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Now and again, a slave ventured too close to a live circuit. The Empire did not provide means to protect ourselves as we worked. Over time the impulse of the shock transferred to our bodies, disrupting our natural rhythms undetected. Often we knew nothing of it until we discovered a corpse or fell where we stood.”

Din realized his fist was now shaking on his knee.

“Did this affliction have a name?”

“My people called it a _chak’un_ or imbalance, in your language. They can be deadly. Fortunately, we developed our own prevention techniques and came to recognize the signs.”

Din swallowed thickly. “Can you reverse it?”

“I cannot.” He shook his heavy head. “But the jawas can.”

“To _kriff_ with the jawas! Agh--!” Din exploded and for the first time since their meeting, Kuill flinched as Din hunched over sharply in pain, one hand on his heaving chest.

“Do not raise your voice, warrior.” Kuill warned. “Agitating yourself will only deplete your strength and you cannot rebuild your ship if you are too weak to do so. Before you speak again, I will have you breathe.”

To his dismay Din found that taking in air had become a task. He pulled in a stubborn wheeze but it did nothing to slow the vibrations in his chest.

“Try again. Deep breath.” Kuill’s words sounded far away.

Din tried to obey but the uneven thumping of his heart was choking him. The armor, which had always been close as his own flesh, now weighed against his sternum like a stone slowly smothering him. He fought the urge to tear it away and gasp a full breath. His chest seized as panic overtook him.

“Breathe Mando.”

Easy order but another strained wheeze was the best he could do. It was not good enough for the farmer.

“Command your air, do not allow it to command you.” Kuill’s bare hand now lay flat against his cuirass. “Settle your mind. All is well. All will be well.”

Ignoring the painful contortion of his beating heart and the discomfort of the old man’s proximity, Din closed his eyes and managed to fill his trembling lungs. Holding it, he counted to _thrix_ silently in Mando’a as he’d been taught by the Armorer, then released in a broken exhale.

“Again.” Kuill commanded. Din’s shuddering breath whistled again but this time the intake was easier.

“If you need additional oxygen I have it in storage. But it would be better for you to stabilize on your own.” Kuill assured him, taking up Din’s wrist again in his fingers. 

“You are doing well. Two more breaths, warrior. Then I will continue.”

Din felt the erratic thud of his heart stumble over itself on the next inhale. It unnerved him to sit here deprived of air on solid land. This lack of air was for a de-pressurizing cabin or an atmospheric malfunction. The child watches from the side as Din struggles to regulate. If it is troubled, it gives no sign. 

One shaking deep breath then another. Gradually the terrible buzzing in his head abated. The warlike drumming in his chest faded to a subdued tapping, still noticeable but quieter. 

“You have regained yourself.” Kuill sat back on his heels, releasing Din’s wrist. 

“Thank you.” He breathed, nodding. “I…did not expect that.”

“Your heart is strong, Mandalorian. You are not used to your body betraying you. It has been compromised but it is not beyond repair.”

“Why the jawas?” Din asked.

“The jawas revere electricity. Some say it is like their Maker. They use it to propel them forward through the desert. They also use it to protect themselves from attackers. Unfortunately, your armor gave the volts directed at your flesh an ideal conductor. Electric currents unleashed must find a home. They have now settled in the chambers of your heart, forcing it to beat in defiance of its natural rhythm.” 

“Kriff.” Din muttered. “Ok, so I have this…imbalance. So what? If I can stand, I can get my ship back.”

“You are dizzy, aren’t you.” Kuill observed. “And your breathing even now is not steady. If left untreated, you will begin to black out as your heart weakens. I can do nothing but ease your symptoms. If we are to repair you and your ship, we must seek aid from the jawas.”

 _Dank ferrik._ “How are a gang of kriff-eating jawas going to fix my heart?”

“Electricity was the cause of the imbalance. A second current will undo it.”

“Don’t _you_ have electricity here?”

“None powerful enough to repair this damage. Only jawas generate power enough to rewire the heart of a human. The jawas can and will fix you. I have spoken.”

“So…when do we go after them?”

“You are in no fit condition to ride, Mandalorian. I will send out a signal to them and they will come to us. Then we shall commence negotiations.” He groaned as he stood up, stretching his tired muscles. “We have much to do before then. Follow me.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To his surprise, Kuill lead him back into his dwelling and motioned for him to lie on a pallet that had been arranged for him to sleep on. Din had been expecting land maps perhaps or a few Ugnaught methods of persuasion if any such existed. Getting his ship back required only one thing in his mind—force. However, the ways of the old farmer never ceased to confuse him. 

“What’s this? I’m taking a nap?”

“Lying down you will neither improve nor worsen. If you can remain still and quiet for a while, I will gather collateral evidence to present the jawas. You may find it easier to breathe if you removed some of your armor.”

“Helmet stays on.” He shot back.

“As you wish but remove the cuirass. I will return shortly.”

Reluctantly, Din unhooked the blasters from his bolster and lifted the weighted bandolier from around his neck. Piece by piece, he removed the armor, relieved to find breathing much easier with the cuirass gone. But the removal of his weapons set him on edge again. He was never without them on his person. The child hovered beside him, still silent.

“This ain’t a show, kid.” He told it. The child tilted its green head, cooing. Din chose to ignore it. Settling himself back on the straw and linen pallet, he found the smell much better down here--desert sage and something faintly citrus. His sore muscles released their tension as he leaned back, one blaster concealed behind the head cushion.

He had expected the farmer to return with some questionable bitter tonic but instead he returned bearing a clunky metal object similar to a transponder and two iron canisters 

Din recognized the canisters as pressurized oxygen. The Ugnaught set them down with a small grunt.

“I do not believe you will have need of these but I brought them nonetheless. I swear I will not be present should you require them.”

“Thanks.” Din nodded, noting the multicolored thin wires attached to the strange-looking object. “What is that?”

“This was crafted to detect impulses in the body so that they could be seen by the eyes. The jawas will demand proof of the damage they inflicted on you. This machine will provide us that proof.”

“How?”

“I will show you. Does your suit have clasps? Your skin above the heart must be bare in order for the device to intercept your rhythm.”

“Getting tired of your hocus pocus, old man.” Din huffed but reached up to unclasp the fastenings on his shoulder, releasing the thick swatch of fabric. Kuill knelt at his side and switched on the machine which whined to life before settling into a vibrating buzz. The child cooed again with interest.

“What is that?”

“We developed it among ourselves, in the slave quarters. Designed bit by bit from scraps we bartered, traded and stole in some cases. It was used to assess bio-rhythms in older recruits that they should not become vulnerable to a swift and sudden death from exposure to the circuits. I will now use it on you to prove to the jawas that they have taken more than your ship from you.”

“Whatever. Just get it over with.” Din growled, feeling more agitated by the minute.

“It will not take long.” Kuill reassured him. Pulling out a small pot, he unscrewed the lid to reveal a clear, wet jelly. This he scooped up with two fingers to smear beneath Din’s collar bone. Din hissed.

“What the kriff--?”

“Be still. I must create a barrier between you and the machine so your body can speak clearly to it.”

“Warn me next time? That stuff is colder than a Twi-lek’s—“

“Lie back. Breathe normally. Do not talk.” Kuill cut him off.

A rustle of blankets and Din shifted his body to lie flatter, head propped on the pack he’d been using as a pillow.

He flinched slightly when the old man’s fingers met bare skin. If he noticed the scars decorating his flesh, Kuill made no note of it. One by one, circular pads no bigger than a thumbprint decorated his breastbone, another positioned at the lower end of his ribcage, and still another under his armpit. Expertly the old Ugnaught worked, careful to avoid the fabric covering Din’s body. Checking the settings on the machine, he flipped a switch which ignited the device into a series of erratic whirs and blips before going silent again. A tiny gear hummed to life and after an agonizing pause, Din noticed a long white slip of paper emerging slowly from a slot at its side.

“What is that thing?” Din propped himself up slightly to see better, jostling the leads attached to his chest.

“Lie still. This record is evidence that I will interpret for the jawas in our negotiation. You need be no part of it.”

Din settled back down on the pillow. “It’s my heart, think I ought to have a say.”

“Can you speak jawa?”

“Some.” He lied.

“It will not be enough. The jawa are a scrupulous people. They will demand evidence before they make an offering. Leave that task to me. I have spoken.”

In the dim light through his visor it is difficult to see the fine dark line scrawled across the blank page, much less understand their meaning. Sensing his concern, Kuill met his gaze.

“How does it look?”

The old man considered the sheet now splayed out on his lap. “Like the jagged plains of the Bera Beras, it does. It is as I suspected. The imbalance is clearly visible.”

“That tells me nothing.” Din sighed. The old man nudged himself closer.

“A human heart sings a repeating pattern. It stays constant when it is sound and deviates when interrupted.” He displayed the sheet in front of Din’s uncomprehending visor, pointing at a section of repetitive scrawling. “Behold. This line shows your heart beating as it should.”

Din’s eyes adjusted to the dim light. He could see the even rolling hills, each point marking a single squeeze of his heart. He frowned at the continuing flat plain and shallower, jagged, uneven peaks following it. “And here?”

“That is what must be corrected. The electric current dwelling inside you will try now and then to escape, interrupting your heart beat. You may feel out of breath or dizzy when this happens or you may not notice at all. That is what makes the imbalance so dangerous. It fells men without warning.”

Din’s skin crawled at the thought of another jolt to his chest, even as Kuill deftly removed the pads from his skin. He shuddered, unable to banish the thought of his damaged heart thudding inside him. Kuill cleaned him with a quick swipe of a rag to soak up the excess gel, packing up his equipment and readying to move.

“Kill or cure. It’s all very hard on the heart.” He patted Din’s thigh. “We shall soon see you righted, Mandalorian. Then you may continue your journey and protect this little one.”

“Could use a cup of ertz if you have it.” Din muttered.

“No. The ertz bean contains an element that quickens the blood, consuming it will only unsettle your heart. You will have water. Then food. Then a tonic of my own making. I will rouse you once it is ready. Sleep until then. I have spoken.”  
Kuill departed and all that remained was the barest hint of moonlight filtering through the canvas and the faint sounds of insect chatter and wind rolling through the barren hills. In the distance, the lowing of the Blarrgs faded to quiet. Softer still was the sound of Din’s breathing, mingled with the child’s-- steady yet straining more than usual, feeling the toll of an injury that had yet to fully relinquish its hold.

To hell with this.

He closed his eyes and imagined oblivion long before it came.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
No position was adequate. On his back, the hardness of the dirt floor made his chest work harder for breath. On his belly, he was able to feel every stuttering palpitation acutely with his beskar removed. Hyper-focused and restless, he tossed and turned until he finally managed something like a doze. After being roused for a little food and medicine by the Ugnaught, exhaustion forced him back into unconsciousness. 

It was short lived.

Din found himself jolted awake and shaking before dawn cut the sky. Gasping for air, his heart raced against his chest, frantic to find its pace again. Had he stopped breathing? He placed one hand over his chest, centering himself back to stasis. Dim pictures and half-baked cries sing in his pulsing brain. He shakes his head, scanning the room, eager to put these visions away.

The space is still and quiet as a cold forge. From somewhere within the dwelling, he detects the presence of the harvester, snoring away beneath his bedroll. He is alone.

There will be no more rest for him this night.

He dreads his next meeting with the jawas. What if they refuse him? Even with the old man to vouch for him, they may very well demand his life in exchange for the ones he took in battle. That would not end well for, by creed, he must exact revenge—possibly ending himself in the process. Like most breathing creatures in the world, they will want his beskar and he will, again, make an embarrassment of himself. He is grateful for the temperate farmer who has, it seems, some semblance of dealings with them. He will leave the delicate matters to him.

His gaze shifts absently to the floating pram though there is little to be seen beyond silhouette in the dark. A soft rustle of fabric tells him the little one is also awake.

“Can’t sleep either?” He asks it, not expecting to hear his query returned. It lifts his head and casts its shining gaze on him. The child’s wide open eyes reflect the faint glow of the double moons outside. It bleats fretfully, as though it wishes to approach.

“What do you need, you little womp rat?”

Another bleat. Its large ears twitch, sensing all stimuli in its surrounding. In the dark, the baby taps three clawed fingers against its own chest.

A pause. “Is that you asking to hear it?”

The child coos again, gliding an inch closer in the dark. It stops just short of the Mandalorian's pallet and hovers.

It’s difficult to read its meaning but by some power he cannot name, he knows what the child wants.

A sigh. Another pause. Din rolls onto his back again to stare up at the canopy ceiling, preparing to resign himself to the end of this silent conversation. Then he hears another whine, another soft rapping. He flings the blanket aside and sits up.

“Get over here, then.”

The child’s head perks once more but it makes no advance. Din trains his gaze once more in its direction and thinks shapes are forming more clearly now, his eyes growing used to the dark. 

“You can come, I said.” He repeats.

Timidly, the child advances. Din can sense its trepidation but he does not know whether it stems from his gruff demeanor or its concern over the unsteady heartbeat it can more than likely hear trembling from within his chest. He supposes it doesn’t matter overmuch. He will not harm the baby. He is fairly certain the baby will not harm him.

Small packages can be deadly, he has learned.

The child drifts close enough for Din to reach inside and lift him up and out. The child coos, small hands reaching up. Din settles back against the pillow pack with a rough, tired sigh and feels his body go lax as he cradles the infant against his chest.

There is a moment of surprise as the child finds its way to the open patch bared by his undone collar. He feels the direct heat of the infant pressing against his skin.

“Happy now?” 

The child coos again so he guesses it is content, one large ear draped beneath his collar bone. It shuts its eyes as its little body goes still. “Ktu. Ktu. Ktu.” It mimics the sound of the rhythm, Din quirks a half smile. His memory drifts back to the small, furry _chujo_ his swordmaster kept as pets when he’d been a cadet. One of them, a pebble-eyed, gray-downed ball of fluff named Pelo, had taken the habit of sleeping with Din between rounds. How easily that creature had trusted Din, curling itself on his chest to fall asleep each night despite the fact that, if Din wished, it could be skewered at any moment. Memory rises like sea foam to the surface of his mind and he smiles. The last time he’d stroked Pelo’s soft fur, he had not even claimed his first blood coup.

A warble from the child claims his attention again.

“Well? How does it sound?” He asks after a few measured breaths. The child flutters its lips, stirring up tiny bubbles of saliva. Din’s hand pauses on its way up to touch it. 

This is his quarry. Not a pet.

He can’t be sure what the infant knows or is learning: all it hears is the powerful thumping of a heart as steady, strong and relentless as the man it belongs to. Din feels it skip with a painful twinge and he suppresses the urge to rub his chest. Just as the old man had done while measuring his pulse, this child too has him under scrutiny. He’s never been made an object of study before. Din doesn’t have the energy to complain about it. 

They lie that way for some moments. At first he is unsure what to do with his hands before settling one comfortably on the baby’s lower back. He can feel its light breathing and the gentle rise and fall of its body. It is not asleep yet. It is focusing.

To his surprise, his own breathing comes easier despite the warm weight of the child against him. He doesn’t know how or why, but suddenly, he thinks handing the little one over to the Client will be all that much harder if he ever manages it off this rock.


	2. THE DEAL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kuill and Din make an offer the jawa can't refuse. Din loses his cool maybe once.

Morning comes without consent and Din rises, feeling heavier than he can recall even without the armor. He straps it on anyway and it grounds him, grateful at least to have this part of him once again. His mouth feels thick and his throat dry. The child has returned somehow to its pram, having crawled away sometime after dawn, by his imperfect recollection. The raw ache in his chest, though significantly dulled by an evening of rest, still lingers.

“Mandalorian?” Kuill’s voice calls from his pantry. “Are you awake?”

“Something like that.” He reaches up to stretch.

“I am making food. You must fortify if you are to be ready for another bout with the jawas.”

At the mention of those pint-sized bandits, Din feels his face grow warm beneath his helmet. He swallows before responding.

“Thank you.”

He had just finished fastening his wrist bracer when the old man totters in carrying a steaming bowl and a battered tin cup. Din is grateful the farmer has prepared liquid sustenance as it is the easiest thing he can consume without completely removing the helmet. 

“This is to preserve your strength. It was grown on this land.”

“What is it?” Din stares down at the brownish substance.

“Boiled _igual_ grain, sweetened with _vella_ nectar. Food for the invalid.”

Din bristles. “I’m not—“

“I have spoken.”

Din sighs, placing both hands on the sides of the warm bowl. He dips his head in gratitude. 

“Thank you.” Thumbing his helmet partially upward, he takes an experimental sip of the broth and finds it acceptable. Anything homemade and warm beats a prepackaged, freeze-dried ship ration any way.

“So, when can we expect company?”

“I raised my flag before dawn. The sandcrawler will be here within the hour. Prepare yourself. Eat.”

“How will they know to come here?”

“The jawas have drones scattered about the region. When they see my banner, they will assume I am a wealthy miner looking to trade fuel.”

“What’ll happen when they find out you’re not?”

The Ugnaught charges the dated yet somehow functioning blaster at his hip.

“We will offer them something better than fuel.”

“Like what?”

“That they must determine. How are you feeling?”

This time, Din catches his hand before it moves to rub at his chest.

“Unfortunate.” He replies.

“Mm. Drink the tea.” Kuill gestures toward the battered cup. “It will not change your fortune but it will quiet your blood. It is my hope that it may also clear your head. I have spoken.” The Ugnaught moves to the child’s pram, offering it a bit of porridge from his bowl. 

Din takes a cautious pull of the tea. Bitter but that does not bother him. He’d drink ten cupfuls of the stuff if it meant he’d never have to see another jawa again but if he’s going to leave this planet whole, he’s going to have to swallow more than just tea.

After draining the cup, he finds that it leaves him less sharp along his edges. He feels…not calm exactly--something he’d define better as lethargic. His head is spinning. He is still aware of his heart, which beats too fast for him to feel completely calm. A Mandalorian who wishes to stay alive does not typically permit such lassitude but watching the old man feed the child somehow gives him permission.

Kuill goes about his business, repairing old parts and seeing that the Blurrgs are watered. The child contents itself with chasing (and munching on) the river toads gathered along the drainage tanks. Din spends the better part of the morning checking and rechecking his weapons. He’s itching for warfare again even if his body says otherwise.

“Mando!” He lifts his head when he hears the Ugnaught’s voice. “Come! They are approaching.”

Taking a deep breath, Din hunches himself down to exit the Ugnaught’s squat door frame. Is everyone on this desert planet the size of an Ewok? His visor’s tracking telemetry tell him what he needs to know long before he sees the rising cloud of dust in the distance. A looming structure like a moving citadel on wheels cuts through the dunes in its advance.

The child’s gaze follows the horizon as though it too expects danger from the approaching fortress. Din glances down at the blaster charging on his hip. He prays silently that he will not need it to negotiate with anything other than words. As if sensing his distress, Kuill leans in.

“Let me speak first. If they will not listen, I will speak until they do.”

Din can only nod. Already his heart is pounding.

With a slow and deafening screech, the jawa stronghold lurches to a halt just before the maintenance field. Kuill, already seated on his Blurrg mount, kicks the animal’s side to urge it forward. He lifts his hand in greeting.

Sure enough, the jawas show themselves in numbers and upon seeing Kuill, they do not sound pleased. Angry voices rise when they catch sight of him in his armor, towering behind Kuill’s mount. Small black fingers jab at the air in his direction, rushed and heated words exchanged. Weapons are taken up and aimed. Din feels his blood rise, one hand moving unconsciously to his hip.

This does not go unnoticed. Kuill quickly switches to Basic.

“Remember what I told you. They are angry but they are also willing to talk. A blaster is no way to make a greeting.”

“Stripping my ship clean was no way either.”

“Calm. Let me speak to them more.” Kuill directs his next words to the waiting party of jawas, already clutching their ion blasters, some even taking shoddy aim. 

The dialogue is fairly quick as the jawa language to his ears is nothing more than a rapid succession of distorted clauses, expletives and commands. Kuill, he notices, speaks seven words to their twenty. His ears pick up catches of phrase though he cannot be certain what all of them mean. So he waits, forcing himself not to engage any of his weapons despite the fact that several jawa have their blasters trained on him.

“What’s going on?” He asks, impatiently.

“They do not like you.” Kuill responds.

“Coulda told you that.” Din grumbles. “What do they want?”

“One moment.” Kuill now gestures to him, using his hands to sign. He points to his own chest then taps one finger against the metal breastplate Din now wears. The metallic clang instantly stirs a reaction among the gathered jawas.

“You better not be trading off my armor, old man.” Din warns.

“I am explaining to them the extent of the damage they have caused. I am helping them understand that by stealing from you, they have also stolen a part of your life. I am asking now what they intend to offer to undo this damage.”

“Hunh. Good luck.”

From his kneeling position in the sand behind the Ugnaught, Din’s fist tightens. He hates being left out of this exchange, hates that he has to reason and bargain with thieves. He cannot even command enough words in their ridiculous tongue to express his anger. Rage boils inside him, making his heart skip and stutter.

As Kuill’s words taper to a hopeful finish, the jawas now speak among themselves with heated intensity. Din cannot be sure whether the cackling sound rising from their number is laughter or weeping. Jawas rarely make any sense to him.

“What are they saying?”

“They have told me of your battle. They are mourning the loss of their tribesmen felled by your blaster.”

“Yeah? Maybe they shouldn’t take what’s not theirs!”

“In their defense, Mandalorian. The jawas are a tribe of nomad traders. Your ship was left unmanned and untended like a jewel on the breast of the desert. For all their knowledge, it had been abandoned by some settler. You ought to have concealed it better.”

This wasn't what Din needed to hear but he swallowed the curse on his tongue.

“What do they intend to do about my heart?” 

Kuill raises a hand to appease him, a gesture that meant wait. Din has had enough waiting to be understood. He surges forward, shaking his fist.

“ _Gurzt ekr benzi! A teekh…teekh urgt dahl…_ ” Stitching together all the bastardized jawa words he knows, Din addresses them. Frustrated by his stunted vocabulary, he pounds a fist against his chest. Peals of laughter erupt among the little people. Din can hardly breathe.

“I told you to leave the talking to me!” Kuill admonishes him with a sigh. “Now they are mocking you.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Din’s finger on the fire cannon acts on its own, sending a roaring tongue of flame in their direction with deadly intent. Terrified, the little jawas scream, scrambling to avoid the blast. When the smoke clears, it appears he has only singed the tops of their pointed hoods. No casualties this time. Kuill plants a forceful hand over his arm, grinding it into the sand.

“You are not making this any easier for me, Mandalorian! How am I to plead your case when you make it clear that you wish nothing more than to attack them?”

“I don’t have time for pleasantries.” Din erupts. “These people took something from me and I want it back. NOW.”

“NOW is something you cannot have.” Kuill returns evenly. “I suggest you release that desire and set it free from your heart. You will make yourself ill if you do not. You have right to your anger, Mandalorian, and this they can perceive without the use of your blaster. You must allow others to return what is yours. I have spoken.”

A gurgle from the child hovering nearby seems to agree with Kuill, its ears drooping low as though frightened. Din slowly releases the breath he hadn’t realized he’d had locked tight in his lungs. His head pulses with his heart and the sun’s heat now threatens to suffocate him.

“Fine.” He says, too dizzy to argue further.

“The jawas do not bargain unfairly.” Kuill reassures. “Soon I will make them see.”

Kuill continues his case in what sounds to his ears like humility. Apologies are being offered and little by little, similar sounds emerge from the jawas. They are approaching, at last, what can be called terms. Just as Din begins to forget about the thrumming ache in his chest, Kuill turns to him and his shoulders, which had been tense a moment before, now loosen.

“I have good news. The jawas have been told of your affliction. They have agreed to reverse the damage free of charge.”

“Far too generous.” Din grates, hoping none of the jawas can hear him. Nonetheless, he dips his head in acquiescence. “What about my ship?”

“That will command a different price. Parts can always be replaced. Living hearts cannot. We have already claimed one victory this day. Let us go home and prepare. I have spoken.”

And that seals that. Din watches the gathering of jawas disperse, returning to the confines of their fortress. Kuill kicks his blurrg to a casual pace, tugging on its reign to return.

 _Dang ferrik._ He’s witnessed many negotiations. Half of them end with a smoking corpse. This is the first one he’s won without feeling victorious. For every step he gains in this double-cursed dust bowl, he’s forced four back.


	3. THE SHOCK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din didn't sign up for this.

“How did I kriffin get here?”

Din's mind wanders back to that canteen in Nevarro--not a place that ever asked for or deserved his appreciation. It was the last place he’d felt like he’d had some semblance of control. He was accustomed to being obeyed, avoided; and above all feared. In the streets of Nevarro, residents knew him by name. Setting terms over (ignored) shots of Spotchka. Reeling in targets. Cutting deals. Muscling a few stragglers. Killing was an option. That was the world he'd been brought up in and that was where he firmly belonged.

Not tied to a stake in the middle of a desert, feeling the wind across his cheek.

He goes over in his head what is about to go down as soon as those dim-witted jawas locate their triggers.

In his quarters, Kuill had recited the program. “The jawas have studied the map made of your heart’s damaged impulses. They are now calibrating their ion blasters to set right the superfluous currents." 

Din processes this with a slight cringe. “And then?”

“I will not lie, Mandalorian. The diversion will cause great pain. I have substances available that will render you temporarily senseless until it is complete. I recommend you use them.”

Din decides he hates the sound of that more than the suggestion of being shot up a second time with live currents.

“Pain I can take."

"Others like you have said as much. This pain is not like that pain." Kuill assured him.

"I don't need darkness. As long as I have assurance this will work.”

“I have seen the procedure done on livestock. It usually works the first time.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then we try again.”

Din chokes on his spit. “Again?”

“Until the heartbeat is corrected. Or stops.”

Din’s heart makes an automatic forced thud before beating double time. The overall effect makes his vision dim and his head swim. He bites back a curse. When his eyesight clears, he finds the child’s gaze on him. It burbles gently as if to say: “Oh well”.

Indeed.

“Let’s get this over with.”

He can see Kuill packing his satchel with the heavy canisters of oxygen and some bendable tubing. “For emergencies.” With a heft and a shrug, he shoulders the weighted bag and heads out the door.

“Follow me.”

The dry winds pick up, scattering dust into Din’s cloak as they venture out again. A small group of jawas have gathered in front of the sandcrawler. Each holds in their small hands a crudely formed blaster. Before Din can take a step further, Kuill speaks.

“You must leave your weapons.”

“These are a part of me. They do not leave my person.”

“The jawas have set in their terms that if they are to assist you, they must have assurance they will not be attacked again.”

“You didn’t mention that!” Din hisses.

“You will be required to do many things of which you are not willing, Mandalorian. Do not and they will go back inside their dwelling and leave.”

“Just like them to—“

“Lay down your weapons. I have spoken.” Kuill commands.

Din grits his teeth. Asking a Mandalorian to lay down his arms is equivalent to asking him to hand over his own foundling to a bear. The weapon is sacred; an extension of his spirit. Now he must leave it in the dust, such blatant disrespect would be punishable back home. 

But he is not home. 

The shock rifle from his shoulder holster is unlatched. He sets it down reverently behind him. The absence of its weight feels to him like a physical blow, increasing the painful tightness in his chest. His eyes flicker upward to the jawas, ensuring his actions are to their satisfaction. 

“ALL weapons, Mando.”

Din does not obey at once. First he asks the Maker’s forgiveness, a softly whispered prayer. He hopes it is enough. He has lain aside his weapons before under rare categories. He can do so now. The rifle is reverently lowered, the blaster unclasped and placed beside it. The blade at his ankle is removed from its sheath. Finally, and most reluctantly, his wrist bracers drop one after the other onto the sand. He is now completely disarmed. This results in approving chitters from the jawas as Don’s heart within him beats faster and faster. 

“Now the armor.”

“You want me to move the Alder moons next, old man?” He snarls. 

Kuill is no fool. His words are selected carefully but words have never been enough to make any Mandalorian shed their armor.

“I know your vow but hear me. The current will conduct quickly through the beskar, where it is at risk of missing your heart. The procedure is best done on bare flesh. The cuirass will have to go.”

“And my helmet?”

“Electricity is attracted to metal. The steel may mislead the current. You will remove your helmet only for the diversion.”

“That is forbidden.” Din is resolute. "No living thing may see my face."

“The jawas will not see your face for they must train their limited sight on their target. They have programmed their blasters to hit only a small area on your chest."

“Deal’s off.”

“Mando, this is the only way. Your helmet can be replaced once the current enters your system.”

"You don't understand!" Din feels sweat forming at his throat. "Removing my helmet in front of others goes against the Way!"

"All living creatures have Ways, Mandalorian. Some respect eachother and others do not. To correct the damage on your heart, you must make amends."

"I'd rather die."

"And you will if you do not correct this error. But will it be a death you deserve? A death for a warrior?"

"Cover my face." Din demands. 

"Very well." The Ugnaught pulls out his handkerchief and places it in his gloved hand. It is dark blue and stained with grease. "Cover you face with this at my signal."

“If I pass out?”

“Try not to.”

Din hesitates. He knows very little about the jawa tribe and their marksmanship. Can such little people aim their blasters so high? Even at point blank range, they’d failed to make a kill shot. 

“You are trembling.” Kuill observes as Din bares his chest, grateful he is able to keep his cloak. He has not shown himself to others in this way for longer than he has memory for. It feels wrong and alien, another undercalculated risk. 

“Just…make sure the armor…” Din gulps, pulling down his flight suit to reveal his pounding heart. He pulls in a shaking breath.

Kuill pats his side. “I will make sure none go near your armor.”

Din does not feel reassured in the slightest but reviewing the zero options he’s been offered, he concedes.

Coming closer, he can see the jawas have erected a makeshift vertical post stuck solidly into the ground. It resembles something not too far a cry from what the Empire used to execute traitors back home. At its center dangle two circlets formed from material Din cannot identify. 

“What’s that for?”

One of the jawas gestures toward the strange structure, motioning urgently.

“You are to bind yourself to the post. Lock your wrists in the restraints and stand as still as you can. That is to ensure you do not bolt before or after they have discharged their weapons. Trust me, you do not want them to miss.”

With that he turns and goes to stand beside the jawas.

Now here he stands…

Heart beating like a war drum against his ribs, he is grateful for the cloak leaving him some modicum of dignity. The dry wind blows a gust of sand against his skin, prickling and irritating. He tries to clear his mind the way he has been taught but his heartbeat won't let him think. Baring himself for anyone is against the Creed. Before a known enemy? Weapons yielded against him, by his own beliefs, were to be dealt without mercy.

The jawas are taking their sweet time, kriff him straight to the temple. He imagines the little bastards are getting some amusement out of this. A Mandalorian predator at the mercy of his prey. The tension in the air makes him shudder and he fights to suppress it.

“They are ready!” Kuill shouts from a distance. “Have you braced yourself, Mandalorian?”

He hasn’t. 

“Yes.” He hears himself speak.

“Good. Remove your helmet. My eyes are closed.”

From afar, he can see one jawa raise its weapon, hear the high-pitched zing as it charges, prepping to fire. He whispers a prayer to the Armorer and whomever she prays to that he walks away from this. He turns his back to conceal the sin he is about to commit.

With shaking fingers, the lock seal clicks open. His pounding heartbeat echoes in his ears, reverberating against the steel confine. It is being done. The one thing he must never do.

Worlds change as he lifts up the visor. For a fleeting moment he tastes the arid air against his lips, feels the sun on his face. The light blinds him. He feels like he is already dying despite the hard protest of his heart. The helmet falls, rolling to a half in the sand. Before he can blink, he wraps the stained handkerchief around his face, tying the knot hard behind his head. The cloth smells like gear oil and age. He nearly chokes on it.

Next, the wrist bindings. Taking a careful step towards the pole, his searching fingers soon find the solid post. He fumbles briefly with the fastenings but eventually manages to lock them in place.

"Mandalorian? Are you secure?"

He tugs again at the wrist bindings, ensuring they will hold.

"Yes!" He shouts. _Get it over with._ His mind blanks, breathing hard behind a flimsy face shield, the only thing between him and a broken vow.

He hears one jawa voice counting.

MENO...they raise their blasters  
TROK...they hum to life.  
ZOUN....Din closes his eyes.

A surge between sound and sensation steals his air and in that moment he is engulfed in agony. A shriek pierces the silence.

Din is intimate with pain. He has been trained to respect it. He has, in battle, wrenched out barbs still hot with his blood to continue fighting. He has fished for shrapnel lodged deep between bone and sinew in the pilot seat of the Crest. He has seen his parents slaughtered in cold blood and none of it compares with this invasion.

Din wishes he’d taken Kuill up on that knockout pill.

He did not imagine he would actually feel (or smell) the charge enter his body. A sickening, singed stench followed by a kinetic thrum crackles in the air around him. Time ceases to exist. There is only the agony.

His muscles twitch and seize, each contraction beyond his vocabulary to define. He would scream if his jaw were not locked. He is choking, every part of him absorbing the shock. At the back of his throat, he tastes the metallic tang of blood. 

A wail pierces the haze. Is it the child? He cannot see for the dim veil thrown over the world. He fights it, not wanting to falter, not able to let himself go under.

It is over before the garbled yell ever leaves his throat. 

Din stands (barely) on shaking legs, chest heaving, clinging to the post for support.

“It is done, Mandalorian!” He can hear Kuill’s voice above the high-pitched tone ringing in his ears. The sun glares in and out. He bites his lip hard to keep himself awake. Experimentally he closes his fist, relieved to find he has command over it. His unlocked lungs struggle to recover.

“Can you reach your helmet?” Kuill calls out.

Blindly, he gropes through the sand until they touch something solid. He shakily bends to pick it up and vertigo nearly sends him crashing forward, his vision darkening rapidly again. Using the post for support, he manages to take up the helm with trembling fingers and position it on his head. It locks in place, concealing him again. But the world won’t stop fading in and out of existence.

“How do you feel?” Kuill is near now (when? how?), gloved fingers reaching for the restraints. He barely notices the little Ugnaught’s hands fussing at the binds, searching for his pulse.

“Awful.” Din manages to speak. His heart is too big for his chest, sending agitated kicks against his ribs. He blinks hard, looking down at his smarting chest. Two angry red scorch marks trail down from his collarbone to the top of his ribcage.

 _Damn._ He thinks. _Not bad._

Victorious chattering from the jawas grate against his brain, their high pitched shrills and shrieks making his addled senses reel. Kuill’s throaty response to them is much gentler.

“They say that their first debt to you has been paid.”

“Great.” Din pants, strength ebbing rapidly. It feels as if he is losing blood though he is not. Kuill leans in to bear some of his weight as he tries to move away. 

“I am amazed you are still standing. You will do no more negotiating today.”

Din agrees. He could not even if he wanted to. Nausea threatens his stomach. Sinking to his knees, he gives in to gravity’s pull. Kuill backs up slightly but does not appear overly alarmed.

“Come, let us go home. I can assess your condition better there. Move now before you overheat.”

“I just…need a minute.”

"You will need one day, one night and the next morning. You have been struck by lightening, Warrior. Even the Hutts cannot withstand such trauma. Your body needs time.”

Din does not relish the idea of being strapped to a restless blurrg all the way back to the desert dwelling. He breathes deeply for a few seconds before shakily coming back to full stand. He hates to do so, but he allows Kuill to accept his weight.

“My armor…”

“Has been loaded onto my transporter. It is safe.”

Ok, now Din can move.

He hobbles back to the landing, passing by the gathered jawas who have laid down their weapons. Though fighting dizziness worse than he’s ever felt it, he wracks his sluggish brain for a word to offer them. Giving up, he asks:

“How do you say ‘thank you’ in their language?” He vaguely knows at least one jawa phrase of gratitude but he’s never had call to use it.

“I have already offered thanks on your behalf.”

“All the same.” Din grunts. 

“Guhn arang.” Kuill offers. “That is the most common.”

Din does his best to repeat the phrase on passing, placing one careful foot in front of the other, leaning against Kuill’s side. The jawas form rank, in unison clapping their hands twice to show they have accepted his gesture. 

Din barely hears it, he’s hyper-focused on making it to the transport and donning his armor again.

Kuill eases him down onto the transporter and busies himself with starting the engine, checking the yoke on his blurrg mount. With tingling fingers, Din slowly reattaches his cuirass, bracers, and flight suit, grateful that Kuill has been perceptive enough to give him time to do so. He winces with a hiss as the cuirass settles painfully against his breastbone. It is bad enough to send his head reeling again and he groans.

“Your pressure is low.” Kuill tells him as the engine thrums to life. “You can expect to feel weak this day. The ache in your chest will vanish in time.” He drops a flat white tablet into Din’s palm. “Here. Place this under your tongue.”

“What is it?”

“Sugar. And a drug that will help thin your blood."

Din thumbs up his helmet to place the tablet in his mouth. It is sweet and dissolves quickly. Dipping his head in gratitude, he sags back against the burlap storage bags lining the cruiser. 

“Mandalorian? Have you need of oxygen?”

“Don’t think so.” Din replies, pulling in a deep breath.

“Good. Let us proceed then.”

“Nnn?”

The child. As ever, it is keeping watchful distance from Din in its pram. Its eyes blink open and shut, regarding him with open curiosity. Had it watched the entire episode? He thought he had heard it cry out but it does not appear frightened now.

“No worries kid.” He mumbled, leaning back against the padded edge of the transport storage basin. His eyes close, welcoming the darkness. “No worries.”


	4. THE BELT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din is persuaded to wear a holster. In case anything happens to him. Like a Mudhorn battle, for instance.

“I’m not wearing that.”

Kuill, as expected, is unmoved. In his hands, he clutched a makeshift object that looks as though it has been hammered together from scratch.

“Is everything a battle with you Mandalorian?”

“If it has to be.”

On this planet, everything has to be. Din doesn’t remember much of the trip back to the settlement and upon waking, discovers it is night and he is lying on a soft pallet without a clear memory of how he'd gotten there. He must have dragged himself. Neither the child or the old man could bear his weight but the memory is dim. He can’t recall the last time he’d allowed himself to sleep that long. Kuill had roused him at some point for food and more bitter tea, both making him feel more grounded. Upon waking a second time, he finds the wounds on his chest had been dressed without his knowledge. His skin smarts where the fabric of his suit rubs against the burn marks. His limbs are sore and his head is heavy but not as before.

Now Kuill presents him with another mystery to wear.

Kuill sighs. “I will explain again. Your heart has just experienced trauma and what affects the heart affects the whole. This holster is meant to monitor the impulses and seek out any remaining traces of the charge. It will not cause you any further harm.”

Din scrutinizes the device in Kuill’s hands. From what he can tell, it is some telemetry device. A rectangular box with an even smaller feedback screen rests in Kuill’s palm, no bigger than a pre-Empire comlink. Two wire leads—one yellow and one green—attach to sensor pads he supposes must attach to his skin. Already he doesn’t trust it.

“Last I checked you were a scrap dealer, not a healer.”

Kuill is no fool. He sets it down on the ground beside Din and busies himself with the kettle on his stove.

“That is true. Use it or not, it makes no difference to me.”

Din scowls and glances outside. The jawas have elected to settle within eyesight of the scrap field. They gather closely about their fires, perusing the grounds now and then, bickering over parts and rejected scrap. Kuill ventures out among them to serve tea, despite Din’s misgivings.

“Why do they have to be so close?”

“They are my guests as are you, Mandalorian. I seek war with no one.”

“I don’t trust them.”

“You do not have a choice.” Kuill reminds him, pouring another cup of steaming tea and placing it within Din’s reach. Din ignores it, choosing to focus his irritation on the strange device Kuill has placed near him. He picks it up to examine it. It fits neatly into his palm though its structure looks handmade, as though it had been patched together by borrowed remnants of wiring and makeshift fusing. He wonders if Kuill had fashioned it during his Empire years but opts not to ask.

“You will wear it.” Kuill informs him again. 

Din snorts.

“I’m still breathing. I don’t need any junk bio-beacon to tell me I'm alive.”

Kuill miraculously manages to both sound and look older. 

“I cannot make you understand. It is true that you are alive. But the heart is a delicate machine, sensitive to change. This device was invented to detect disturbances in its charge field. It will provide useful data. It is enough that you cannot trust the jawas. Is it too much to trust me and my handiwork?”

“I don’t need data, I need my parts back!” Din asserts again, hoping his tone will end the debate.

“It was not unknown for a recently diverted slave to be found cold and dead come morning. A diversion is no simple process, it is a major assault on the body. Some are better equipped to handle it and others are not. If you will not heed my advice for yourself, then please think of the child. You are its protector. If something happens to you, I cannot guarantee its safety.”

Din glances at the babe peeking cautiously over the rim of its pram. It lifts its voice in a curious warble.

“How do you feel now?”

“Better than yesterday.” 

“Are you in pain?”

“No.” A lie.

“Then you can put this on. It will monitor your heart’s rhythm and make sure you have no need of another shock. Trust me, you do not want one. I have spoken.” 

Din shakes his head in resignation, ungently tugging away his beskar to reveal his throat.

“Fine.” He huffs.

“I did not know Mandalorians were so stubborn.” He presses a few buttons and the contraption whirs to life. The dark screen illuminates, flashing orange, a thin streak moves across the feedback monitor. 

“I am permitted.” Kuill murmurs his apology again, finding Din’s cloak to unclasp it. He tugs it down, working quickly so as not to further irritate. He pauses a moment to examine the dressing on his chest, careful not to touch it. One sensor taps down just beneath the nipple. It feels cold at first but quickly warms to his skin. The other is placed lower on his belly, a few inches above his navel. Kuill adjusts the tiny screen a few times before securing it to a hook in Din’s belt. Then he replaces the clasp and covers Din’s torso again.

“There. Wear it today and into tomorrow.”

A jawa appears at the door, gesturing and chattering in its high pitched tongue. Kuill responds, lifting up his hand.

“What now?”

“They have begun to discuss the return of your ship. Are you ready?”

“Like I have a choice.” Din sighs, summoning his strength to push up off the floor and rise to his feet. His energy has returned but the memory of that agony lingers like an echo, something that makes the mark on his skin burn hotter. His joints are stiff and painful from the seizures but he can move them without wishing for death. 

“It is good to see you accepting reality, Mando.” 

“Well, it hasn’t been accepting me lately.” He mutters, turning to the child. “You coming?”

The child squeaks, moving its pram forward out the door, following obediently behind. He’s not ready to bet credits on it yet, but he’s starting to gather that the kid likes him.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The night air is cooler. Four jawas are seated before their fire as Din and Kuill approach. Kuill opens the dialogue with what Din has come to recognize as jawa courtesy speech and bides his time in watchful silence. He catches bits of phrase he recognizes, senses the subject of their conversation shift to him. The child coos, its eyes large in the firelight.

“The jawas say they are surprised to see you standing.” 

Din wracks his brain for an appropriate response to that but fails. His head feels off; sluggish ever since the shock so he nods to escape scrutiny, repeating the gratitude phrase he’d learned earlier. It’s as much restraint as he has right now, ever aware of the device at his belt.

“They have also sworn by their makers that none have seen your face. Jawas have poor eyesight and from a distance, your features were not visible.”

“Explains why their aim is such dung.”

“They will now present the terms of your ship’s parts.”

One of the jawa representatives gestures excitedly and Din catches the word for “value” and “shiny.” Kuill dutifully reports.

“They will trade the parts of your ship for the beskar.”

Din nearly lets loose his cannon but checks himself.

“I’m a Mandalorian. This armor is sacred to me.”

“They care not. To them, beskar is just another metal of value and they deem it equal to that of your ship.”

Din feels his heartbeat skip as his temper rises.

“These are MY parts. They stole them from ME!” He says through gritted teeth. 

“Do not over-excite yourself. I will speak with them.”

Kuill appeals to the jawas again and they seem to accept what he has to say. A few phrases are exchanged with Kuill firmly rejecting the next offer. The jawas huddle together to discuss alternative options.

Din is losing his patience. “They have exactly four karzaks to make up their minds before I set their entire kriffing fortress on—“

“Suga!” The lead jawa emerges, nodding its head decisively. Din frowns. He thinks he knows that word but.... 

“Egg?” He can't have heard that right.

The jawas begin to chant the phrase over and over. It seems like their collective minds are made up. Kuill cradles his forehead in his hand with a heavy sigh.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Din has never laid eyes on a mudhorn's _suga_ before. But after that evening, he vows not to ever again in his lifetime.

The bruises still smart long after the kriffing egg is delivered. Din barely manages the strength to load his parts onto Kuill’s cruiser, making it clear to the jawas that he has suffered enough trouble for them and that the loading burden is their responsibility. The jawas are agreeable, he finds. They even throw in a couple of spare thruster converters, free of charge.

Gee, thanks.

The child slumbers in its cradle, having exhausted itself of whatever energy it had used to subdue the beast and save his hide. It is not injured so far as he can tell. But he does not have adequate words to explain what happened when Kuill asks.

“It was as if…the mudhorn were being lifted off the ground. I remember it… lifted its head to charge but it was in mid-air, held in place. I didn’t think about the child but nothing that small could--”

“Mysterious, indeed.” Kuill cuts him off. “But you have bigger things to contemplate now. Such as the restoration of your ship.”

Din felt his aching shoulders twinge at the thought. No bone in his body was willing to operate at full function. The hull restoration might be a one-night job but the storage units and fuel thrusters would take…

_Dank ferrik…_

His head pounds and he squeezes his eyes shut behind his helmet. He wants a stiff drink and a dip in a Twi’lek Healing Bath. A healing Twi’lek wouldn’t go begging either. Every part of him aches but he is glad of it. It is better than the death that had been promised him.

The child sleeps on and for the first time, Din is worried more about it than himself. He’d been told to bring in the quarry alive. He hopes that will be the case whenever he makes it out. Its breathing is steady enough and its ears twitch intermittently so he supposes it is merely asleep—something he is keen to be once he’s done unpacking.

Night cloaks the desert by the time they return to Kuill’s dwelling. Din has no strength left to even look at the battered remains piled in some semblance of order on the transporter. He has his own wounds to tend. Nothing broken as far as he can tell--the mudhorn’s attack was geared more toward keeping distance and throwing him around the mud pit. His chestplate will need adjustment and, if he is very unfortunate after he peels away his flight suit, a cauterize may be called for.

Din slowly and painfully disembarks, doing his best not to limp back to the Urgnaught hut. Once inside, Kuill offers him ointment and privacy to apply it, both of which Din accepts with thanks. Behind the muslin curtain separating the small living quarters, he methodically removes his armor and then sets to work stripping away his flight suit, testing the mobility of his limbs as he does so. There’s bruising as he’d suspected but little bleeding. As he pulls up his shirt, his thumbs brush across the tiny wire leads attached to his chest.

He’d forgotten about them. The tiny reader clipped to his belt is still operating—its screen glowing faintly in the dim light. Examining the output with bleary vision, Din can just make out faint squiggles and lines but does not understand what he should be looking at. 

“Hey.” He gets the Ugnaught’s attention. “Hey, Kuill?”

“Yes?”

Unclasping the box, he easily peels off the sensor pads and offers both the leads and the device. Sticking his hand out from behind the curtain, he offers it back. “You need this?”

“I will review its findings and report back to you.” Kuill takes the device. “See to your injuries.”

Din has no trouble with that. The ointment smells foul and he doesn’t bother to ask what’s in it. Whatever it is, it works to cool the raw ache in the worst of the bruises and numb the pulled muscles that had been hurled violently against solid rock not hours before. Purple and yellow patterns decorate his chest and belly but that he’s seen before. As suicide missions go, that fact that he’d walked out alive is enough. Her emerges from behind the curtain slathered in smelly ointment but mobile enough to tolerate the weight of his armor again. Kuill is seated at his work table, studying a readout projected against his wall.

“You died.” He says without looking up.

Din chuffs an uncertain laugh, pausing in his tracks. “No, I didn’t.”

“You did. See that flat line? You were dead for approximately forty _stentbax._ ”

Din leans forward, squinting his eyes at the projected readings illuminating the wall. Similar to the previous device, this new gadget’s readout displays in hills and bumps. His eyes scan across the trace patterns shown in flickering waves, placed close together, some arced high in what Din can only guess is representative of exertion. His mind drifts back to the mudhorn pit. That first violent blow that had landed him skidding across miles of mud. How his tunnel vision had faded in and out in that moment. How light his body had suddenly become.

“Those waves measure the activity of your heart. For the battle, these patterns here tell me that your body underwent great stress.”

“Mudhorns are stressful.” 

“However, I know not what occurred here…” Kuill points to a jagged stretch where the wave pattern interrupts abruptly and goes flat. “…but a straight line means your heart showed no activity at this point in time. You were dead, Mando.” 

“Get the kriff out.”

“I can go nowhere. You on the other hand, departed your body and—“

“Ok, you have spoken.” Din holds up his hand, eager to change the subject. “Am I clear? Do I need to make any more deals with any more jawas?”

The Ugnaught shakes his head. “No.”

Thank the Maker. “How’s the kid?”

“Sleeping. I was about to awaken it for some food.”

Din storms outside to where the child’s pram hovers. His steps are quick. He is eager to see how the child fares. It lies on its back, breathing in and out peacefully. It is still asleep, despite the loud lowing of the blurrgs in their surrounding pens. The battle had been some time ago. Was it injured? He places his hand on the tiny belly, holding his breath.

“Hey kid.” Pressing his gloved fingertips gently into the soft flesh, he shakes it. “Chow time.”

A faint squeak rises from the child as its breathing shifts. Gradually it stirs, large black eyes fluttering open. Upon seeing the helmet hovering above, it coos. One hand reaches up, small stubby fingers curling to grasp Din’s thumb in a firm grip. The Mandalorian nearly sags with relief, feeling it regain its strength.

“Guess I owa ya one, kid.” Din says to it. The child tilts it head and blinks.

He’s never seen a smile on an infant. So few of the living creatures Din encounters offer him smiles. This one is unafraid which makes it a rare creature indeed. Din lifts it out of its pram and holds it against his chest, noting how it tests its limbs and wriggles. It settles comfortably against the center of his cuirass and sighs. Din turns around, making his way back towards the hut. The stars burn above him, invitingly. By tomorrow, he will be among them and back to a place he belongs.

“You comfy with me, kid?”

“Atoo.” It replies.

“That makes two of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to go for a Soft!Din ending. Thank you for reading! Gotta say, getting beneath all that beskar is fun. Must find other avenues. Thank you to HeartofaMandalorian for inspiring me with the concept.


End file.
